


Being Harrison Wells

by orphan_account



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: (more like non-con adjacent tbh but tagging just in case), Body snatching, M/M, Masturbation, Narcissism, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 00:14:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5846434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eobard was a practical man; he knew he wouldn’t have the time to properly enjoy being Harrison Wells for several hours, perhaps even a day, depending on how slowly the police worked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Being Harrison Wells

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry.

Eobard had been looking forward to this day for years—decades, if he was honest with himself. It had been that long, but he prided himself on never forgetting a face. So, when he followed Harrison Wells’ car to the beach, he made sure to take his time. Didn’t look at him at first, let the anticipation build until he was ready. It was like a courtship, in a way. Harrison just didn’t realize it yet.

But the man he saw sitting under that umbrella, with a soft pretty smile for his soft pretty wife, was not the man that Eobard remembered. He looked like him, sure. Same frame, same hair, more or less. Same startling blue eyes. But there was something missing from them. This man was _less_ than the man in Eobard’s memories, with the pulse laser and the masklike disdain showing just a shadow of fear underneath. Eobard watched him kissing Tess, and rather than the satisfaction he had anticipated, all he felt was sour anticlimax.

Perhaps that disappointment was good for him in the end. It signaled a shift in his priorities, and he altered his plans accordingly. All this time, he’d been looking forward to his next meeting with Harrison Wells; _the_ Harrison Wells, who he had uncovered from history like a familiar fossil. (He remembered the moment so vividly still, when he first saw that face and the captioned name ‘HARRISON WELLS’ on the slick, glossy page of a magazine; it had felt like the bottom dropping out of his stomach. Like destiny. He had cut that page out and kept it.) But now that he’d found him again, Eobard knew that he couldn’t go through with any of the reunions he’d played out in his head. The reality would pale so completely, next to the fantasy.

So it would be quick. A functional death. He still felt some pleasure, watching that car careening on the dark empty road, flipping over so spectacularly. But it was spoiled by the fact that he knew he would have felt _more_ if it had been that other man in the car. That other man looking up at him from under the wreck, pleading for his help. Would he have pleaded? Eobard didn’t think so – at least, not as much as this man did. It was pathetic: the naked panic in his voice, his idiotic failure to grasp the situation. More than anything else, Eobard was bored by the whole thing. There was no joy in picking him up and throwing him back onto the asphalt. Not when he didn’t fight back. Eobard was sure the man of no consequence would have fought back.

The first real thrill Eobard felt came at the moment before he connected himself to the device. The transformation hurt, of course. It was only fitting, that it should burn him from the inside out. And that small, inferior man kneeling before him desiccated, unnoticed. Before long, it was over.

Eobard was a practical man; he knew he wouldn’t have the time to properly enjoy being Harrison Wells for several hours, perhaps even a day, depending on how slowly the police worked. He dealt with the waste, buried the body deep in the wet earth. Then the blue and red lights started to draw close, so he threw himself into the wreck, battered himself against the ground, let the shards of broken glass bite into this new skin of his.

He performed well, he thought. The hollowness of shock was easy enough to fake; Eobard knew that less was more, and the sympathy in the eyes of the cops and doctors and nurses told him he was doing well.

There were no injuries to justify keeping him at the hospital, so they let him go, telling him he had been very lucky. Eobard agreed, thanked them, accepted a ride home from one of the police officers, and then _finally_ he was alone. 

And the joy started to come. It started as just a trickle, when he pulled Harrison’s keys from his pocket. There was something so intimate about holding another person’s keys. He tried them in the front door lock until he found the right one; the sound of the deadbolt sliding free changed that trickle into something more. He wandered through the house, paying little attention to the surroundings. Too many traces there of Tess, too many signs reminding him that the man he’d killed was a mere facsimile.

He found what he was looking for on the second floor: a closet in the master bedroom, its sliding doors mirrored from floor to ceiling. Eobard felt his pulse quicken as he turned on the light and approached them. He stood in front of his reflection, took his time examining what he saw. Some of the flaws, he could remedy right away. He tossed the glasses onto the bed, pulled and twisted at the thick, dark hair that was his now his until it stood up and off his forehead completely. There was nothing he could do about the lines which were missing from the face, evidence of years not yet lived. Those would come, in time.

The reflection started to look right. Started to look like _him_. Eobard turned from side to side slowly, rotated his head, watching the way that face seemed to change based on where the shadows fell. He raised his eyebrows one at a time, scowled, set his teeth. It was better, so much better than he had predicted, with all the little red scratches from the broken glass, with that bruise blooming like a nebula across the curve of his cheekbone. Eobard tried a look of fear, and then smiled.

Yes, he was going to like being Harrison Wells.

There was more, too. Things he had imagined but not seen. He took his time, removing the layers of clothing from himself. Like a courtship. The joy in him was a river now, a roaring, deafening rush. Every detail was a treat – the birthmark just above one knee, the scar from a removed appendix, how _dark_ the hair was under his arms and trailing down from his belly button. Eobard took in all of it, face falling into a small, rapt smile. If only he had known, all those years ago, that someday he would have this. That man’s body, at his total mercy, under his total control. How good it would have been, to look him in the eyes and know the exact feel of his hipbones, know the way his spine looked where it met the small of his back.

He knew he was going to touch himself – he’d known it since before the beach. When he finally slid a hand down to grip at his cock, hard for some time now, it felt inevitable. As inevitable as his whole life had been since he learned that he was the Reverse Flash. Eobard pressed his forehead to the mirror as he began to move his hand, breath fogging up the glass, but it didn’t matter. He could see those blue blue eyes with perfect clarity – his now. His eyelids to blink or open wide. His pupils to watch dilate with arousal. _His._

What fun it would be, if only this didn’t have to be his secret. If only he could make that man know that he’d taken his blue eyes from him and possessed them now as completely as he possessed the rest of him. How delicious it would be, to see the cracks widening in that hard mask of bravery, to see the fear and helplessness underneath! Eobard granted himself a moment of fantasy to play out that confrontation, his breath coming in quick, sharp gasps as he pictured it. _His_ hand, identical to the hand that Eobard was using to stroke himself right now, loosening on the handle of the pulse laser. The step back that he would take, the little shake of his head. The dawning comprehension that he had lost, had been beaten, and there was no hope, no stopping the man who had done it.

Yes, Eobard would have liked that.

But he would settle for this – for watching the way this face changed when it went slack-mouthed and half-lidded with want. He would settle for orgasming in hard, shuddering spurts and watching the come sliding down his reflection in the mirror. The other man may never know, but he would. And it was enough.


End file.
